


reclamation

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Getting Back Together, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Episode: s08e11 LARP and the Real Girl, Season/Series 08, mild possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 00:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12047625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Once they're finally on the same page again, once things are okay, Sam realizes there's just one thing missing.





	reclamation

**Author's Note:**

> Various anons asked for an expansion on the theme of _thorough!Sam_ , which this... sort of is. That theme was also the runner-up in my 'what should I write next' poll, so this can serve as a double fill.

After they get back from post-victory drinks with Charlie, they take it in turns to shower. Sam's almost sore, from the running around and bashing the off-work accountants with the silly foam sword—but he keeps catching himself smiling on and off, too. God, Dean in that wig.

He's quick in the shower, always has been, but after he's mostly dried off he stands in the motel's little bathroom and takes stock, just for a minute. There's a dark spot on his arm, where some kid caught him hard with a shield, and it's probably going to be a bruise. The hunt was easy, though, and with their help the day was saved, and then—the little fake fight was ridiculous, but Dean had just... lit up for it. Sam wipes a hand over his face, catches himself smiling again.

When he comes out, towel wrapped around his hips, Dean's half-sitting on one of the beds, watching who knows what on the television. "Took you long enough," he says, but there's no real sting to it.

He's still got his make-up on, red and white and ridiculous, but honestly—it doesn't look too bad, especially now that he doesn't have the Conan hair. Not that Sam's going to tell him that. "You officially have no room to talk, ever, with the hour long showers," Sam says, and Dean swings off the mattress, grinning.

"You just don't know how to get the most out of your self-care routine," Dean says, raising his eyebrows ridiculously, and closes himself into the bathroom while Sam's still rolling his eyes.

He flicks off the TV, hauls on jeans and a t-shirt, shoves his wet hair behind his ears. It's not that late, and maybe he could work on finding them their next case, or something. Keep working, keep hunting, waiting for Kevin to work on the tablet. That's what he'd said they should do, and Dean had agreed. Behind the bathroom door the toilet flushes, and the shower rushes on, the familiar nightly routine Sam's heard half his life, and—there's a weird second where the world clicks into place, somehow. They'd agreed, back at the cabin—to stay together, to fight together. They hadn't talked about anything more. About what had been lost between them, from misunderstanding and jealousy, for so long. Now, standing in a motel room in the middle of Michigan, listening to Dean humming in the shower, Sam takes a deep breath and—yes. This is where he belongs—where they both do, after everything—and it's time.

He makes it to the liquor store and back before the shower shuts off. He slings his jacket onto the desk chair, tugs off his boots and socks, and by the time the bathroom door finally creaks open he's pouring two glasses of whiskey. "What, did the hot water finally run out?" he says, capping the bottle again.

"Hey, I am the champion of Moondoor," Dean says, and Sam turns around holding both glasses to find Dean shining, pink and not-quite-dry, a towel around his waist. He flicks his eyes from the whiskey up to Sam's face, but his expression isn't showing anything. He shrugs, smiling. "What's the point of winning the war if you can't enjoy it, Sammy?"

Sam huffs, but the corner of his mouth hitches up again anyway. Dean sees it, smiles wider. Sam holds out one of the glasses for Dean to take and they tilt the glasses at each other, half a toast, before taking their first sips. Dean's eyes widen a little at the taste—and, yeah, this is maybe better than the rotgut he usually drinks: real scotch, sixteen years sweet and dark as honey as it rolls down the back of Sam's tongue. Dean's lip is damp when he lowers the glass, his tongue deep pink when it swipes quick over his mouth. Heat hits the pit of Sam's belly, but he can't tell if it's the scotch or just the sight of his brother—his skin, the way his eyes flick up to Sam's, his face open and free of distrust, the way he's _there_ , here, with Sam and nowhere else.

"Maybe I should win wars more often," Dean says, tipping his glass at Sam again in thanks, and then he moves over to the bed nearer the door, where he'd slung his duffle when they grabbed the room not so long ago. He starts digging for something in his bag, his whiskey balanced precariously on the plasticky purple comforter, and Sam watches the muscle in his back move, takes another gulp of whiskey and lets it burn all the way down his throat, and then puts the glass down on the table with an obvious _clink_ , and moves.

Dean stiffens up when Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. There's a tiny cut, bright red at the edge of Dean's hairline, and Sam lets his thumb drag over it, smears the tiniest bit of blood. "What's this," Sam says.

"Nothing," Dean says, automatically. Sam drags his thumb again, a little harder, and maybe it stings, because then, slowly, Dean says, "I ate it, remember, when that kid in the orc costume tripped me—I don't know, maybe a rock got me, or something. What, do I need stitches?"

"No," Sam says, and doesn't move away. He's acutely aware of—everything, of Dean's squared shoulders, and the heat of his skin. He shifts closer, bends his head and breathes out, warm against the back of Dean's neck. They haven't touched like this, not really—not since that first day, that awful afternoon when all of a sudden Dean was back, was _alive_ , and he'd tackled Sam down to the floor with a bright-feral grin and kissed him so hard and clumsy that there had been blood when he'd finally pulled away. It had all gone wrong, after that. He moves his hands to Dean's shoulders and puts his lips against the bare clean skin of Dean's neck, hardly touching, just breathing him in—and Dean bends for it, his head dropping like Sam asked for it outright. Making room. Sam's gut pulses, and he brushes his lips up, to Dean's hairline, taking in his smell, the soap they share, the warm of him, and he squeezes Dean's shoulders, slides his hands down to his biceps, just—just feeling, and then Dean says, "Jesus, Sammy," rough on half a breath, and Sam sucks in a deep breath and yanks him clumsily around, makes him stumble forward into Sam and there's just time to glimpse his wide shocked eyes and how the towel drops suddenly to their feet and then Sam catches him by the back of the head and dips down and kisses him, at last.

Dean sort of—gasps, against him, but he kisses back after a second. God. The whiskey-taste is filling his mouth, but even so he's just—warm, familiar, even after this awful year. He gets one hand wrapped up in Sam's t-shirt, yanking awkwardly at the collar, and the other twines into Sam's hair, holding on. Sam scrapes his teeth over Dean's lower lip, licks it, and lets his free hand slide slowly down the sweet line of Dean's spine to the dip of his lower back, the skin soft and clean and just everything Sam wants. He could knock Dean onto the bed and get them both off right here—might not even take ten minutes, with how completely crazy he feels in this second. But—no. He slows the kiss, lipping more gently at Dean's mouth, and Dean breathes hot against him, his nose brushing Sam's. Deliberately, he drags one thumb over Dean's stubble, along the clean line of his jaw, and when he hits that sensitive spot under his ear and rubs and Dean shivers, abrupt and hard, Sam can't help but smile.

"Still works," he says, and pulls back a few inches.

Dean blinks at him, heavy-lidded. The little room is full of light, the lamps all on, so he can see every detail of Dean's face—his gorgeous plush mouth and the freckles spattered over his tan, the barely-damp spikes of his hair, the flecks of red makeup he missed in his hairline and his eyes, fixed on Sam's, his pupils dark and wide. Dean licks his lips, and then tugs the fistful he's got of Sam's hair, sharp, and Sam can't help the noise he makes, heat melting slow down his spine. "So does that," Dean says, eyes darting back and forth between Sam's, and Sam slides his hands down to the curve of Dean's ass and hauls him in close and finds his mouth again, hardly believing his luck.

Between them they get Dean's bag tossed off the bed and then Dean's laid back on it, Sam still dressed and lying right between his thighs. The glass of whiskey barely gets rescued in time, Dean fumbling it onto the bedside table one-handed while Sam applies his attention to the arched curve of Dean's throat, the hollow between his collarbones, the soft of a nipple when Dean's chest heaves up in a gasp and presents it for his attention. Dean buries a hand in his hair again, keeps his head right where it is, and so Sam laps at it in slow deliberate pulses, scrapes his teeth over once and listens to Dean hiss. No, he never liked it rough, here. Sam blows cool air and lets it pull up into a little bud, the skin tight, and then flicks his tongue soft over it. Dean lifts up on one elbow, and Sam meets his eyes when he sets his teeth into the skin just beside the nipple and bites—not too hard, but enough that Dean can feel it. He gets a shiver, for that, and his dick pulses between his legs, caught up awkward in the jeans he still hasn't taken off. "Vampire," Dean says, voice breathy-deep, and Sam kisses the skin he caught, but doesn't apologize.

There's been a half-used bottle of lube in Sam's travel kit for a long, long time. He never threw it away—hoping, always. Dean waits, spread out and breathing hard on the bed, while Sam grabs the kit from his duffel, while he digs through the shaving cream and toothpaste and finds the little bottle. "Always prepared, huh?" Dean says, drawing up one knee.

Sam lets the kit drop to the floor. Dean's dick is flushed, not quite hard but getting there, pink and heavy against his thigh. "Come here," he says, voice thick, and Dean pushes up, gets his knees under him and shuffles to the end of the bed, his muscles moving beautifully under all that skin, and Sam catches him by the hips and kisses him again, again, the mismatched height of the bed letting him tilt his head up, for a change, Dean's arms slinging around his shoulders and holding him in close. He strokes both thumbs over the soft of Dean's hips, the fine thin skin where the bone dips down to his groin. He pulls back enough to breathe, and when Dean's eyes slowly open, he takes in the way his ears are pinking, the flush stealing over his face, and then he says, "I want to suck your dick," and watches Dean's mouth part with shock.

He gets Dean knocked down to his back again, settles on his knees next to the bed with Dean's legs spread wide around his shoulders, and it's not five seconds after he said it that he gets his mouth on Dean, breathing wet and hot into the neatly-trimmed hair beside his dick. God, Dean. His dick is slower to rise now than it used to be, but it's swelling fast, and Sam tilts his head and rubs his lips up the soft of the shaft. When he reaches the head he flicks his tongue, just once. Dean groans, somewhere up above, and when Sam glances up Dean's watching him, propped on both elbows and his face soft with surprise. "Remember, last time?" Sam says, wrapping a firm grip around the base.

Dean's hips jump, but he nods, eyes fixed on Sam's mouth, on his hand as he jerks Dean once, and then again. "After we—after we got the blood for the alpha vamp," he says, and Sam—he blinks. He didn't think Dean actually would. He slides his free hand up the inside of Dean's thigh, spreads it even wider, and Dean takes in a shuddery breath. "You—on the trunk—"

"Yeah," Sam says, the memory rising up. Dean shocked and groaning aloud at the night sky, sprawled out over the trunk and Sam on his knees just like this, blood hot at how Dean unraveled, and he leans in now and gets his mouth on Dean, lips wet, slides down to meet his fingers in one long push, and—oh, yeah, Dean groans long and loud, up above, mutters _oh—christ, Sammy, oh_ , and Sam would grin, but his mouth's full. God, he loves this. The velvety texture, the familiar taste of salt-skin, the bitter that blooms at the back of his tongue because Dean's diet is awful, but—honestly, Sam doesn't mind it, not now. It just tastes right. He goes easy, suckles soft at the head and tongues at the underside as he goes back down, and Dean's already heaving for breath, up above. When Sam looks he's still up on his elbows, but his head's sunk down between his shoulders, the long line of him pale and flushing all over, his thighs tensing futilely around Sam's shoulders.

He pulls off just for a moment, heaves his shirt off over his head and grabs the lube off the floor, and before Dean can say anything he goes right back to work—long pulses of his tongue that make Dean groan, his lips buzzing just a little. Blind, he gets his fingers wet, and at the first touch between his legs Dean spreads all the wider, breath shuddering audibly in his chest. Sam kneels up higher, hooks one of Dean's knees over his own shoulder, and he just suckles at the head of Dean's dick, watches what he can see of his face while he pushes in. God. That heat, the tightness—Dean's elbows slide out from under him and his mouth is wide open, his eyebrows furrowed. Sam slides the finger out, pushes back in with two—oh, and it's too fast, Dean's body opens up so reluctantly, and his own dick throbs in his jeans even as Dean's leaks into his mouth, a deep groan pulled out somewhere from the pit of Dean's chest when Sam slides his fingers up and around and _in_ , dragging up in the exact spot he's known for what feels like half his life. Dean's heel digs into Sam's back, and he pulls off Dean's dick for a moment, kisses against the inside of Dean's knee. "How's that," he says, voice a little hoarse, pulsing his fingers, and Dean just rolls his head against the slick bedspread, his hips lurching to try to follow the rhythm Sam's working inside him. Sam ducks down and sucks in one of Dean's balls, careful, and Dean actually lets out a thin shout, voice cracking right down the middle, and gets a hand on Sam's head, clutching tight in the hair over his ear. He's sweating, his thigh slipping against Sam's chest, and Sam's overheated too, sweat trickling down the back of his neck and dampening his hair, and his own dick is actually aching from being ignored but this, this is exactly what Sam wanted—Dean wide-open, and moaning, and his.

It doesn't take long, after that. Sam suckles Dean's balls, pushes his fingers in and in and in again, and when he works in a third finger Dean manages a strangled, "Sammy," voice shredded, and Sam gets his mouth back up on Dean's dick, bobs his head and sucks and presses so insistent up inside where Dean's hot, and slick, and finally—finally the muscle clinging at him shudders, and Dean's hips hitch up against the weight Sam's bearing down onto him, and Dean's heel digs into his back and his dick swells in his mouth and then—oh, he's blowing, finally, and Sam swallows once and then pulls off, lets Dean pulse up against his own stomach, thick jerks that echo the deep-down constriction around his fingers, and Dean groans, sharp and deep, while Sam greedily watches every wet twitch.

Dean's still shuddering when Sam tugs his fingers out, and stands. He wrestles his belt open and his jeans off in a moment, grabs Dean by the hips and shoves him up the polyester bedspread in one push. "Do I need a condom," he says, barely hearing his own voice, and—he has a handful, in his kit, he will if he has to, but Dean opens bleary eyes and looks at him and shakes his head, his expression blown-open and soft, and Sam's chest knots tight behind his breastbone, but all he does is fist his wet hand down his dick and then rolls Dean over onto his belly—Dean moans when his sensitive soft dick presses down into the bedspread, but Sam just kneels up between his splayed thighs and picks his hips up, drags him up onto his elbows, and then sinks in—no more prep, no more waiting, Dean's muscles still twitching randomly.

He has to close his eyes, for a few seconds, while Dean moans. God—it's almost painful, tight and hot, everything Sam's been waiting for. He pulses his hips, edges in deeper so he's pressed in right against the plush curve of Dean's ass, and Dean groans, again, his hips flexing in Sam's grip.

"God—goddamn, Sammy," he says, kind of muffled, and Sam opens his eyes to find Dean's head dropped down between his shoulders, the muscles in his back defined and obvious. Sam rocks in and out, shallowly, and drags his clean hand down the perfect line of Dean's spine. Dean's relaxing around him, slowly, but—no. No, that's not what Sam wants.

He shifts, careful, sets his knees on either side of Dean's, and leans forward enough that he can brace one hand against the headboard. This time, when he rocks in, Dean flinches under him. "Oh—god," Dean says, and Sam leans down and presses kisses against his freckled shoulders, against the back of his neck, and does it again, dragging and deliberate. Dean makes a sound like a sob, but his hips arch back into Sam's. "I can't—Sammy, I—" he says, all breath, and Sam slips his hand down past his hip to where his dick's still half-plump, wet and sensitive, and he says, down against Dean's dark red ear, _you can, you will, come on—come on, Dean—_

Torture, to hold on, but he keeps his movements shallow, easy—covering Dean like a blanket, pulsing in, a long and relentless fuck, dragging over his hot spot over and over, just holding his poor dick while it fills so slow. Dean flinches, his knees slipping on the comforter, making these constant half-moans while Sam just nails him right _there_ , over and over until his voice stops, kind of, just goes into these sharp gasping inhales every time Sam fills him up again. The flush has spread, over the back of his neck, the rounded muscle in his shoulder tight and pinked, and Sam puts his forehead down against the crown of Dean's head, buries his nose in the soft short hair where it's soaked in sweat and just keeps going, pushing in so careful, while Dean's dick fills to thickness between his thighs.

Dean's legs go out from under him, eventually, trembling fiercely with effort. Sam slips an arm under his hips and knees his thighs wide apart and slides right back in, to the hilt, and finally he lets go, just a little—long thrusts, hips working against Dean's, knees braced against the bed and holding Dean's shoulder in an underhand grip, keeping him right in place—and Dean finds his voice again, says soft and breathless, _Sam, Sam, oh god,_ his body rippling and knocked loose-open by Sam's, quivery-hot and close, and Sam almost doesn't register it when he comes for a second time because he's so focused on holding back his own orgasm—but he does, he feels it, Dean clenching rhythmically around him and shuddering, his hands fisting weakly into the comforter either side of his head. "Sam," Dean says, pleading, and Sam slides out into the awful cold air, tries to hold back just—just one more minute, please, because he wants—he pulls clumsily at Dean's shoulder, almost drunk-feeling, and with some effort gets Dean onto his back again, his belly smeared wet and come sliding down his side, his eyes wet, his mouth bitten dark and raw. He shakes his head when Sam pushes his trembling thighs up, but that's not what Sam wants.

"Shh, shh," Sam gets out, and Dean blinks up at him in a daze and then Sam's inside him again, all the way in a single thrust, and he's moving sharp and hard and long, deep in-and-out fucking, what he's been holding back from, what he's wanted this whole time—what he's been missing, only—only not really, it was never the fucking. It was always ever and only Dean, Dean _his_ , them knowing each other, and being each other's, a compact that ran so deep through blood and bone that Sam didn't know how either of them had ever, ever thought to escape it—but then—Dean's knees draw up around Sam's hips, and his arms slide up around Sam's shoulders, one hand digging deep into the hair at Sam's nape, and he whispers, shaky, _okay—let go, come on—give it to me, come on, Sammy, please_ , and then Sam curls in tight and he puts his head down to Dean's shoulder and—comes, finally, _finally_ , the knot in his belly unfurling all at once and everything pumping into Dean. He makes some noise, buried down against Dean's sweaty warm skin, and his hips work on autopilot, twitching against Dean, pushing deep.

Dean's fingers comb through his hair, slowly, carding through the length of it. He pulls in a deep breath, the smell of sex and sweat and Dean's skin filling him, and then finally picks his head up. Dean's eyes are heavy, the lashes damp. His mouth, when Sam dips in and kisses him, goes soft and open, but Sam keeps the kiss shallow, just the flick of their tongues together, a soft closed-mouth smooch at the corner of Dean's mouth, on his cheek, beside his eye where it's wet. He shifts his hips, carefully, and his dick finally slips out, flushed and spent. Dean flinches. "Hurts?" Sam says, quiet.

He's still braced right on top of Dean, Dean still curled around him. He gets a slow blink, and then Dean shrugs, awkward against the bed. "Had worse," he says, voice hoarse, and—yeah. Still. Sam kisses his mouth, and doesn't apologize.

He shifts his weight to the side and Dean stretches his legs out, with a grimace. Sam finds the shoved-away pillows while Dean reaches over to the bedside table and finds his abandoned whiskey. Sam expects him to gulp it down, but he only takes a sip, and then sinks down onto the pillow Sam puts behind his head.

"So," Dean says, resting the glass against his chest. His eyes are sleepy, fixed off into the middle distance. "Hero gets his reward, huh."

For a second Sam has no idea what he's talking about. "Something like that," he says, when he gets it. He huffs, then, thinking it through. "Well—not really."

Dean's eyes dart to his, and Sam just—there's nothing to say, not really. Not more than they've already said. The promise was already made—Sam just... followed through.

"Well," Dean says, slowly. "I'm gonna take it as a win, anyway."

Sam smiles, and then takes the glass, knocks back a sip of his own. The scotch spreads warm and sweet through his mouth, matches the warmth in the pit of his stomach. He leans over Dean to put the glass back on the bedside table, and then settles right back against his side, puts a hand heavy on his chest and his head on the pillow, right beside Dean's. They're both going to need another shower—Dean especially—but maybe that can wait, for a while. The room's lit-up bright, but Dean turns in toward him, slinging an arm over his waist, and between them they make a little shadow of their own. That'll be enough to sleep, Sam thinks. For a while.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/165178814179/would-you-pretty-pretty-please-talk-more-about)


End file.
